


Breathe Deeply in the Silence. No Sudden Moves.

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: Phototropic [7]
Category: Starfighter Eclipse
Genre: Feels, M/M, Reunion Sex, Romance, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 02:32:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7995427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helios finally returns to the <em>Kepler</em>; healed of his injuries, he knows he can slip back into a Fighter's role with ease—but he was always more than a Fighter to Selene, and that's what worries him. He wonders if the man he loved can still love him now, without condescension, without <em>pity</em>: when the glass has been patched back together but you can see the cracks, could <em>always</em> see the cracks, and are reminded all the more that it can break.</p><p>Or: "This isn't everything you are. Just take the hand that's offered, and hold on tight."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe Deeply in the Silence. No Sudden Moves.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paintstroke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintstroke/gifts).



> Paintstroke, this is for you, because your incredibly thoughtful comments have been a huge source of inspiration and motivation for me. Thank you for taking the time to read my work and share your thoughts; especially in the last two installments, you picked up on things I didn't necessarily think about, or else fretted over. I am deeply grateful. :)
> 
> The title and the "Or:" bit of the summary are from Snow Patrol's "This Isn't Everything You Are"—lyrically, the former leads right into the latter. The music video is amazing and makes me tear up every time. It seemed a fitting theme for Helios and Selene, given the circumstances.
> 
> Oh! Fun fact: I didn't necessarily realize that Fighters and Navigators sit back-to-back in their ships, until I went to write about Selene and Helios in the _Edifice._ Then I remembered bits of things from the comics, and realized that for someone navigating solo, that wouldn't work so well. I also just couldn't pass up a chance at Helios being perplexed as hell . . . and all the feels that follow (including brief spoilers from SF:E, from the scene where Cain shares his hooch with you).
> 
> Besides that . . . the series isn't finished, friends! It might just take me a bit to figure out what to write next. The last few stories have pretty much fed into one another so strongly that it hasn't taken much to get them down, but now I feel like I need to do some thinking. Any thoughts, reviews, comments, reactions are all welcome! <3 I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (Brownie points if you can spot the _Dune_ reference!)
> 
> (Also: More Māori for Selene, because. <3  
> "Taku whaiāipo": "my sweetheart," with connotations of "the one you pursue in the night."  
> "E ipo": "my darling.")

_"I won't be sending something like that in return. But soon, Afon. I love you."_

The words were dully burned into the Fighter's mind: he could almost hear them threaded through and given life by his Navigator's voice; the gentle, swinging accent that he'd never heard before; the dancing, star-grey eyes. Selene would never lie. 

_". . . soon, Afon. I love you."_

. . . Would he?

Helios meandered around the cantina, restless; the base's MO had given him a night, his final night before rendezvousing with the _Kepler_ , to be back among the masses of recruits: greenlings, veterans, all here for one reason or another. His body felt loose; his head was thick; his throat still burned with more shots of vodka than he could readily recall. He'd come here because it was better than staying in the medical facilities. The sooner he could be away from there—from the sick-white lights and stiffened sheets and tiles that were an unholy shade of piss—God, all the better.

And . . .

_Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll see him and—_

Earlier, he'd looked at his body in the mirror, stripping off the garments of an invalid, slipping easily into a Fighters' casuals with a measure of relief. Any Fighter worth their salt would be proud to have his scars: along his arm, his leg, places where the bone had broken skin; the ugly welt across his chest as well, the proof of his tenacity. The bruises were mostly gone, a few lingering in a mockery of jaundice-yellowed-skin; he could touch artificial teeth with his tongue and hardly know the difference.

Yes, any Fighter would be proud.

But he was more than just a Fighter to Selene, and that's what worried him.

So Selene had seen the picture that Helios had sent because—he didn't know—because he'd been afraid, because he'd wanted him to see—but would he—did he really—

Tomorrow—shit—tomorrow, would Selene really be able to look at him? To touch him? To make love? (God, he'd missed the Navigator—his own hand on the worst of nights wasn't anything, wasn't even worth it anymore because it was _Selene_ who was absent and all he wanted was to feel the slender man in him, to feel their fingers intertwined, to hear him—)

And if he lost his Navigator—

Helios ambled back to the bar, raised his hand for another shot, slid the glass across the counter to the tender.

_Fuck._

* * *

"Someone has to pick him up?"

Keeler peered at Selene cautiously. "This base—ironically—isn't the best for the _Kepler_ to dock at, even though it was the best choice for his recovery. Hayden, for that matter, wants to get us in and out as quickly as possible, and frankly, the fastest way is for someone to take a ship and get him.

"We thought . . . We were sure you'd want to do it. Uhm."

Selene bowed his head a moment, concentrating on the console's keys, the stream of holographic data just above his head lending an eerie, greenish tinge to his olive skin. "Of course I do." A moment more and then: "You want me to take the _Edifice_?"

"Is she fit to fly?" Keeler held up a cursory hand. "Wait. It's you. Of course she is."

"When do I leave?"

"Be ready in an hour."

* * *

_Ready in an hour, Keeler says._

Selene crossed one leg over the other, hunched at his workstation, staring at the screen and seeing nothing. Ready to fly the _Edifice_? Of course, always. But ready—ready to see his Afon for the first time in a month—

The talk with Praxis on the observation deck had helped; he'd been able to sleep that night in sweet anticipation of his Fighter's return. The elation had lasted for the two days it took the _Kepler_ to backtrack and sidle up to the Alliance base; now it hung in orbit over Europa, and the place of so many horrors wasn't lost to him.

But not just for the _Swift._

_Why the hell am I afraid? It's Afon. He promised me he wouldn't break. I haven't lost him._

_(Yet?)_

Selene remembered their trip to the _Derelict_ : they both knew what they were doing but beforehand, oh, his hands had felt like lead as he fumbled with the spacesuit, as he kept up a stream of idle speculation with the Fighter: anything was better than the silence and the ragged edges to their breathing. Or . . . the survivors of the transport ship . . . He'd fought fear up until he saw the first of them, and then—and then the fear was gone—because it had no room, no place—

_This is the same. Just the same._

_(Afon, I promise you . . .)_

But he wasn't really sure just what he _could_ promise, and the thought left a chill in his bones.

* * *

Helios had once heard—in mangled part—that fear is the little death. He also knew that "the little death" was a euphemism for something else entirely. While he vastly preferred the latter meaning, he began to understand why the first was true as well. Not that he _remembered_ the moment when his heart had almost stopped, when compressions hadn't been enough, when he'd earned himself that scar across his chest: but whatever _this_ was felt like death . . . and he'd since learned to savor every heartbeat he was aware of.

Even this:

A sickening, too-rapid pace, a sickness in his throat, a restive twitching in his legs to move, to be somewhere, to do something.

But there was nothing he could do except to wait, watching the landing bay, waiting for the _Edifice._

The MO had worn a smile when they'd informed him of who would be coming to ferry him back to the _Kepler._ "Your own Navigator! What a wonderful coincidence."

Of course it wasn't—and he'd wanted to snap back that they should _know_ better. But considering that this was the person who'd really healed him, who'd knit his bones and helped clean his wounds and guided him through the agony of physical therapy so he could even hope to see Selene again . . . He owed them more than that, so he kept still.

The _Edifice_ dropped from the sky so delicately that it didn't seem like a ship—like a mass of metal—like a man, however skilled, was at the helm. The moment its landing-gear struck pavement, Helios closed his eyes a moment, breathing deeply, forcing himself to relive every terrifying moment of his life and to remind himself that this, comparatively, was nothing, nothing at all to be afraid of.

But, God, it hurt. And it was terrifying. And, more than the sum of all those other memories, it was _everything_.

* * *

Selene blinked as his eyes adjusted from Europa's muted skies to the base's interior lights. The moon, of course, was terraformed, but there was a thickness to the air he couldn't stand—it was like swallowing water—and it left him with an eerie crawling along his skin. Transforming a whole world just so they could claim it—

The crowd was sparse and he wove his way through it, easily, eyes cast warily across the masses, the loose knots, the stragglers. All in Fighters' garb, it seemed: most were built along the lines of Praxis but a few reminded him of Deimos: most wore ritualized expressions of dominance, don't-fuck-with-me, but some—some he worried for, off-handedly, because he knew they'd be fodder for the rest. Any Fighter who let themselves grow pale, who pressed themselves against a wall, wouldn't last too long . . . if, again, Deimos was the exception . . .

"S-Selene?"

He turned, pivoting a full circle on his heel before, through a gap between two tall and solid men, he saw—

* * *

"Oh," was all the Navigator said at first—a small, small desperate sound that stopped the Fighter in his tracks. And then, "Oh, God. Afon. _Afon_ —"

Helios stumbled from the force of Selene's hurtled form, a blur of white uniform and ombre hair and olive skin and then suddenly the _reality_ of his Navigator . . . Selene was so composed—was almost always—

The slender body pressed against his own was too familiar, though, was too heart-wrenchingly close, was flesh-and-blood at last—and after all this time—after all this worry—he didn't care. He couldn't. Let the other Fighters look, let them see, let them laugh or scowl or think what they pleased, because this was _his_ Selene, his Goddamned brilliant Navigator, who'd just lost all sense of reason and was holding him with all the strength gathered in that seemingly-weak frame—

"I've . . . I've missed you. So much. Fuck. Selene. Selene, I—"

But Selene shifted suddenly, stilling the stammered words tumbling from Helios' lips. And when the Navigator kissed him—deeply—desperately—in a way he never had, on principle, in public—Helios found that, like the rest of it, he didn't mind. At all.

* * *

Selene's hand was at his shoulder then they finally cleared the Alliance's bureaucratic checkpoints and made their way out to the _Edifice._ Helios had stood poised to swing himself into the Fighter's niche at the nose of the ship. To his surprise he found the Navigator smiling.

"Not there."

"You're . . . in my spot?"

The Navigator laughed. "Look, that's fine for combat, but it didn't make any sense at all to come and get you. I routed the auxiliary controls up here."

"Does that mean I can navigate?"

"Afon, I love you. No."

* * *

"It's weird back here, Selene."

Their headsets crackled; within moments Selene had acknowledged the go-ahead for the Alliance's control and began maneuvering the _Edifice_ toward cleared ground and a runway. Now they were airborne, were climbing through the stratosphere, Selene carefully coordinating with the _Kepler_ so that their orbital rendezvous was without a hitch.

"Why's that, Afon?"

"You know, I wanted to be a Navigator."

Selene's hands were light on the controls; there was precious little to worry about up here, in the Fighter's niche, except for not accidentally deploying something. Helios' words took a tangled-long time to work through his mind, and in the end "What?" was the best he could manage.

"Yeah. I . . . well, I mean, I'm sure you can see why it didn't . . . I passed the preliminary exams but nothing else. Once we got into the technical side, I just—I couldn't. My brain doesn't work like that."

"But you _can_ navigate."

"I ran some sims. I did my homework, anyway. And all Fighters have to—"

The words fell sharply and he couldn't say anything more for a moment. All Fighters were required to at least have basic operating knowledge of their ships, in the event that their Navigator was incapacitated—or—

Helios' hands ghosted over the console, the candy-bright displays. "I think that's part of why—part of why I started to fall in love with you. I . . . saw something I'd wanted to be, really wanted, only . . . better."

"Hm. Afon . . ."

 _Would he trust himself?_ Selene pursed his lips, wavering a moment. He didn't doubt the Fighter in the slightest, except for his tendency—sometimes—to stand in his own way. "Afon, do you trust me?"

"Yeah. Of course."

_. . . Oh._

_Selene?_

The same thread as bound them in the VR sims, as let them communicate almost sans words, as let them flawlessly execute mission after mission with the highest score _still_ bound them now: after a month apart and in their own ship, their own _Edifice_ , with far more than a score at stake, they were reminded of why and how they'd found each other—and it had nothing at all to do with the Alliance's compatibility system— _at all_ —it was for _this_ —

The console at his fingertips lit up more brightly still, and Helios' instincts—the pride of every Fighter—took control; hands comfortably resting in his lap, eyes nearly closed, Selene felt nothing, no tremor of lost motion, as the ship sang that it was Afon's and it was his Fighter who would bring them home.

* * *

" _Kepler_ , this is _Edifice_ requesting to dock at bay two."

". . . Helios?"

"Ho, Keeler."

The head Navigator shook his head, staring at the radar screen, watching the Starfighter edge closer to the warship. "What— Ngh. Never mind. Okay, you're cleared for two. And—welcome back, Fighter."

* * *

"Ah, fuck, I don't remember how—"

"Relax, Afon. Look, reverse the thrusters. Slow us down a bit. You see? Now you have time. There's a yellow switch to your left—"

"There are five of them, Selene."

"Shh. It should be level with your hand. Or—it is with mine. The third switch down. That's our landing gear."

"Oh."

"Heh. Is it coming back to you?"

"A bit."

"Some things always do. I never doubted you, you know."

". . . And now I remember why this fucking job is yours. Shit. I can't even—"

"Hush and concentrate, Afon."

The Navigator's laughter rippled over the headsets, and when Helios slid the _Edifice_ into the _Kepler_ 's docking bay, he didn't know if he'd ever been grinning quite so broadly.

* * *

Keeler and Encke were in the bay to meet them, as were Ethos, Abel, and Sigyn—although the latter three were all pretending to be working on their ships, so Selene assumed. The tools were dropped too hastily, their faces were too bright when they turned on their heels to all but rush the _Edifice._

"Helios!"

Seeing the Fighter clamber from the Navigator's niche had Encke roaring with laughter; Keeler's lips twitched in a sardonic, God-I-knew-it-and-thank-Mother-that-they-made-it grin and even Sigyn smiled.

"You're looking well again," the head Fighter rumbled, appraising him with a well-trained eye. "The bed rest did you good."

"PT will be hell." Helios offered him a small smile. "It'll take a bit to be in form again."

"Considering you're lucky to have your life, I'm not too worried, hm?"

Helios swung his arms, keeping an eye always on Selene, who graciously stood back, still perched on the _Edifice_ 's wing. "Yeah. Yeah, I've been itching to get back. Honestly."

"We've still got a while in the day-shift yet. You feeling up for it?"

Selene offered him a small, small smile. No way command would just give them a day off like this—not a second time, at any rate. And they knew it—their duty, first, was to the Alliance. They'd expected this, however much they yearned for the night-shift and a room and a familiar bunk.

"Yes, sir."

"Here we go again. I'm just Encke, kid."

"Heh. I know . . ."

Seeing his Fighter amble off, Selene dropped down from the _Edifice_ at last, landing with a solid step. Hesitating slightly, he reached out to shake Keeler by the hand. "I . . . took a risk, an unnecessary one. I'm sorry."

"Well." Keeler tilted his head; Selene caught the shadows underneath his eyes and the fine lines of worry working their way across his forehead. "I appreciate that. The CO's aware, but—well. He hasn't told me to come down here to chew you out."

"Appreciated, Keeler."

"Hm. Well. See to your ship and then report back to the bridge."

Business as usual, with Keeler, but Selene found himself smiling contentedly again as he turned back toward the _Edifice,_ inspecting carefully the second thing he knew as well as his own flesh and bones.

"I'm glad that he's okay."

Softly, softly—Selene peered around a wing to see Sigyn standing there. The kid had come a long way, really: he was never boisterous or catty, as some Navigators could be, but there was an honesty to him, a willingness to learn, a strength which showed itself more and more these days. Loki's replacement had been task-named Bjorn: a tall, barrel-chested man with the flaxen hair and blue eyes to suit his name—and the two of them, Selene had noticed, got along quite well.

"Me too, Sigyn." Selene slipped under the wing to hold out his hand. "Look, I know we haven't talked a lot since . . . since everything. But I'm glad you're here."

"Yeah. I'm—I'm glad that he's okay."

The repetition wasn't for sheer awkwardness: in Sigyn's eyes Selene saw more than the boy dared to say aloud, a gratitude, a hope, a gladness for their love—perhaps because, with Bjorn, he was beginning to understand that not all Fighters were of the same ilk as Loki. Or Cain.

"Sigyn," Selene knelt down to whisper, "really . . . thank you. . . . It means more than I can say. And—between us, you see?—for _you_ , too, for Bjorn, I am so glad."

* * *

The shower was hot, almost to the point of scalding, but God it felt good. He hurt. Everything—his muscles were lead and his joints protested at the slightest motion. But it had felt good to be up, to be moving, to have Encke as his sparring partner while the movements came back to him—much as navigation had—without much of a second thought—

But the cathartic exercise and ache couldn't completely draw his mind from the fears as had driven him to throw back too much vodka, as had given him a hellish headache earlier this morning. He couldn't stop staring at the scars, couldn't help but wonder just what it was Selene had seen when he was in Med Bay—

And there was the softness to him, too, the muscles grown lax over a month of little more than bed rest—

He hoped, or hoped he knew, that Selene wasn't so petty. After all, the Navigator hadn't been keen to let him go: he still remembered the fierce, deep, desperate intensity of how Selene had run up to him, had very nearly body-slammed him, had held on as if his life depended on it.

Helios closed his eyes, letting the water mingle with the tears he hadn't quite realized he was weeping.

* * *

The room was cold. It always was. The medical facilities had been so comparatively lush, so warm, so bright, that had it not been for worry and for the promise of the one to come, Helios would have felt a bit depressed.

He'd swaddled himself in Fighters' casuals to pace the room and wait—God, why did he have to wait? He ran his hands over the desk—Selene's side always neat, his something more of a disaster. He looked at the top bunk, and the bottom, both tidily made. But there were still two pillows on the bottom, and the Fighter smiled.

* * *

Balancing the trays in the grip of one hand, Selene picked his way from the mess hall to their room. There were perhaps thirty minutes to the day-shift, and Selene hadn't wanted to waste a tick of it in public. Still, he was sure the Fighter would be hungry, and his own stomach couldn't help but agree: willing to take any reprimand as might befall him later, he'd slid in and out of the mess hall before anyone could notice. Except for one, whose haunted eyes flashed wide, whom he could have sworn just barely smiled.

* * *

His knuckles at the door were soft.

He heard Helios—his Afon—step up to the threshold. Pause. A long, deep moment's pause.

* * *

"You brought supper! Great—I'm starving—"

And the words were so commonplace, so much of his Afon, that Selene had to set the trays down on the desk and double over, laughing, laughing so hard he nearly wept, laughing harder than he had in a long, long time.

The Fighter smiled awkwardly, half-ashamed that he'd been so callous—and unashamed at once, because really, food was life, food was survival, and what sort of Fighter would he be if even nerves weren't tempered by his instincts? And who else but his Selene would laugh?

* * *

They sat at the desk and pooled the contents of their trays together; technically their rations were separate because of differing requirements but neither of them cared tonight. As they had on the Alliance's Earth Orbital, the food was picked and pressed and spooned into each other's mouths, for the sheer giddy innocence, for the intimacy, for the memories it kindled in them both of the one night when Helios had sworn he wouldn't break and Selene had taken him at his word.

There were, by the Navigator's reckoning, five minutes until the lights went out.

"Afon. Do you trust me?"

The Fighter, inevitably lulled for a moment from lucidity by a full belly and his body's aches, glanced up . . . and seemed to suddenly curl into himself in a way that made Selene suppress a shiver. Because, really, there was no way to prove to his Afon that whatever damage his body had suffered didn't matter in the slightest—he was still his Afon—he always would be—

"Do you know . . . that if they'd have said you'd never be fit for duty again . . . I'd have left. I'd have followed you."

Helios glanced up, away. He didn't trust himself to speak. He'd never, not once in his life, not even when he'd been sixteen and V was gone and he'd so wantonly bedded almost any man who'd have him—he'd never, never been ashamed of his own body. He shouldn't be. Here Selene was saying—

"Afon. Look at me." Cool, cool hands against his cheeks and soft, familiar lips just at the tip of his nose, hovering, until he shivered, until the gently-cadenced voice slipped into a tongue he'd heard but once before: "Taku whaiāipo . . ."

"Selene."

"Shh. Afon. Listen to me. Do you trust me?"

_Yes. Yes . . . yes._

Because what other choice _was_ there?

"You let me see you once."

_Oh. Fuck. The picture. That—I shouldn't—_

"Will you let me really see you now?"

And there—and that—the thing he'd been dreading—but he couldn't deny—he couldn't hide from his Navigator indefinitely—and the look of honest, open yearning which worked itself across Selene's angled face—just yearning, hoping—not yet lust . . .

"I'm . . . so sorry. Fuck. Selene. I'm . . . I shouldn't have . . ."

A hand pressed itself against his lips, slid up to catch the tears.

"Shh, Afon. It's okay. I promise you. Don't weep, e ipo."

And slowly, eyes closed, he felt deft fingers slide the coat from his shoulders, slip up under his skin-tight shirt. Despite himself he arched his back, mouth open in a silent cry, all trepidation cast out now by the searing heat of the touch he'd craved for what seemed like a lifetime—

He didn't care when the shirt was pulled over his head, was gone.

And he was not ashamed when Selene, with reverence, half-straddled him, began to kiss him—all the ugly places first—his arms—his chest—working his hands through the Fighter's hair, taking a savage little delight in the sheer eroticism of the clothing still between them.

"Does anything still hurt you?" the Navigator gasped into his ear.

"No—I'm fine—Selene—"

The Fighter's hips jerked sharply and the chair beneath them slipped; Selene, half-laughing, stood and began to pull him toward the bunk.

The stared at it a moment, not sure quite why they were waiting, not sure why it seemed to take on a significance greater than the place where they so often slept, made love.

And then Helios found his hands fumbling at the neck of the Navigator's uniform, felt the pulse pounding at the latter's jaw, saw how the star-grey eyes rolled up momentarily when his lips fastened on his collarbone. Once again he stumbled as Selene leaned into him, as he shook himself loose from white cloth and began to gently, oh-so-gently pull at the Fighter's pants, as they all but staggered into the bunk.

"I've missed you," Helios found himself whispering, over and over, while Selene's hands were his undoing. The sound of their bedside drawer opening, the familiar scraping of a jar . . . He pressed the Navigator to him, wrapping his thighs around those slender hips, feeling Selene struggle to be gentle, as he always was, but this—there wasn't much room for gentleness—not when—

Not when they'd been so long apart, which was nothing to speak of everything they'd nearly lost.

"Ah! Selene—I've—missed you—"

Selene set his teeth, half-lost already, finding that he couldn't speak. But the Fighter's love-cries and his own were more, were more than words—and their hands entwined—and the moment when even time relinquished itself and all he knew was Helios around him—his body and his arms—holding him, just holding him—when the pleasure hit Selene so hard he almost couldn't breathe—but still had breath enough to call out the Fighter's name.

* * *

That night they slept in brief and fitful turns. Inevitably, more times than they likely knew, they woke, found each other, made love—sometimes desperately, if one or the other had been wrested from a nightmare—but always, always Selene was there to ask if it was good, if it was okay, and the Fighter always responded with far better things than words.


End file.
